Chapter Text
The letter went something like this:
You don’t seem to be aware of it, but you’re terrible at deflecting questions, Schlatt. However, I’m done waiting for answers. You’re well-aware of my feelings regarding your plan, and I’m well-aware of your feelings towards my feelings. I’ve given up on debating the matter further, so I’d at least like to know some details.
Who exactly are you hiring? Is it someone you can trust, and if not, how are you going to ensure they don’t turn you in? What method will they use? The roads up by L’mannes are dangerous, what if there’s bad weather? Is there anyone else inside the palace aware of this, or is it just you and me?
I trust you will burn this letter after reading it, because if it is discovered it will implicate the both of us. I will find you tomorrow and you can give me your reply, which I will also burn as soon as I finish reading it.
Please, don’t screw us over with this.
A
While the details were scant, the date written at the top provided all the context needed to understand what the letter was discussing. The letter had been penned a week before Tommy and Wilbur’s trip to L’mannes.
For a moment, the weight of what he was reading couldn’t seem to sink in for Wilbur. The ink letters swirled across the page, spilling into one another until he was staring at a blur of incomprehensible shapes. His ears began to ring, and he clutched the paper tighter.
Then, his eyes found a point of focus. The sign off at the end. A for Alecs. No doubt a half-hearted attempt on Quackity’s end to thwart discovery if the letter had gotten out of Schlatt’s hands, since Wilbur had never heard Quackity be referred to by his first name. Still, the context made it pathetically easy to put the pieces together, forcing the reality to settle itself across Wilbur’s shoulders.
Quackity knew about the L’mannes attack a full week before it occurred.
And if Wilbur had any doubts, they were erased when his own memory came back unbidden. How the night before he left on the carriage with Tommy, Quackity had pulled him into the shadows and whispered a warning to him. A warning Wilbur hadn’t understood at the time, and in retrospect had chosen to believe was nothing more than paranoia proven right on Quackity’s end. But this letter changed that.
“Wilbur?” Phil asked after several minutes of silence.
“Where-” Wilbur’s voice broke and he winced, but forced himself to continue, “where did you find this?”
Phil sighed. “After L’mannes, I always held some suspicion about how much Quackity might’ve known about Schlatt’s plan. But in light of Quackity’s recent threats towards me, I asked Sneeg to have one of the servants search Schlatt’s old chambers since they haven’t been used since his death. This letter was discovered beneath the floorboards.”
If Wilbur wasn’t on the verge of being sick, he would’ve laughed at that. Of course Schlatt held onto the letter instead of burning it like Quackity instructed him to. He likely believed he could use it as collateral if Quackity ever wanted to break their alliance, despite the fact that it put him at risk as well. Schlatt had always been bitter like that. He couldn’t lose without dragging someone else down with him.
“That’s not all,” Phil then said, startling Wilbur out of his thoughts. “Techno and I have been looking into the recent mob attack on Nikanna and Tomys’ carriage. While it’s impossible to say it wasn’t a stableboy who informed the radicalist group, I’m beginning to suspect that Nikanna herself had a hand in the plan, and that Quackity could’ve been aware of it as well.”
Wilbur blinked, his thoughts momentarily derailed from the implications of the letter in his hands.
“What? That’s impossible. Quackity and I were in Cedardijk in the weeks before the radicalist attack.”
“So you read the contents of every letter Quackity both received and sent out during his time there?” Phil challenged in a calm, quiet voice. “You’re absolutely certain that Nikanna and Quackity have never conspired?”
The word ‘no’ formed on the tip of Wilbur’s tongue, but he stopped himself. Less than an hour before, when Niki discovered his and Quackity’s relationship, while she had been plenty angry with Wilbur she didn’t seem upset with Quackity in the way he would expect. If anything, she had seemed more worried about Quackity taking risks than anything else. And Quackity had promised Niki they would speak tomorrow so he could fill her in, as if meeting up to exchange information was something they did often.
Wilbur furrowed his brows. Had Niki and Quackity always been that close?
Shaking his head, Wilbur tried to dismiss his speculations and ground himself in reality again. “No, Niki would never do something like that to Tommy. To someone else, maybe, but not to a teenager.” He let out a breath. “Quackity holds no grudge against Tommy either.”
“Are you sure about that, mate?” Phil asked, gesturing to the letter in his hands.
And just like that, Wilbur’s attempt at reason crumbled into pieces. He clenched his jaw as he set the letter down beside him. Then, he let out an unsteady breath and buried his face in his hands.
“Uh, if it makes you feel any better,” Techno chimed in, his voice tight, “that letter was dated before it was decided that you would go with Tommy to L’mannes.”
“I know,” Wilbur mumbled between his fingers. “My going didn’t make a difference though, did it?”
There was another pause, and Wilbur could practically feel Phil and Techno sharing worried looks over his head.
“It’s late,” Phil finally said. “You should go back to your chambers and get some rest. Take some time to think things over. When you’re ready, come to us and we’ll talk about where to go from here.”
Wilbur wasn’t stupid. He knew that Phil saying where to go from here was a kind euphemism for what we’re going to do about Quackity. But as loath as he was to admit it, he was grateful for that small kindness. He was grateful for the time Phil was giving him to process this. There was a headache pounding at his temples, and nausea crawling up the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted to do right now was make plans with his father.
The walk back to his room passed by in a haze. His legs felt as though they were moving on their own. He knew this made his limp more pronounced since he was making no effort to hide it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
When Wilbur passed by a familiar set of doors, he paused. Stared at the wood grains while imagining both the room and person that lay beyond it. Pictured his dark hair splayed out against his pillow, eyes shut with lashes fanning out against his cheeks. How many mornings had Wilbur spent tracing every line of his face before he woke? He wasn’t sure.
“Would you like me to let Lord Quackity know you’re here?” The guard waiting beside the door asked.
In that moment, a part of Wilbur wanted to say yes. There was a sharp ache inside his chest that he knew could be soothed by Quackity’s arms wrapping around him. If he let himself, he could wrap his hands around Quackity’s and beg for answers, beg for an explanation that was anything but what that letter suggested.
But at the same time, Wilbur knew he couldn’t face Quackity right now. Not to mention, if this was true, Quackity couldn’t find out that Wilbur had this information. Wilbur had to keep this as close to his chest as possible.
So he just shook his head at the guard and continued down the hall.
That night, as Wilbur lay in his bed watching the shadows from the fireplace dance along the walls, he found himself thinking back to the past few weeks. In retrospect, Quackity’s strange behavior made perfect sense. He’d accused Phil of trying to assassinate Sam. Of course that was why he’d been so much more paranoid than before.
But Wilbur hadn’t picked up on it. He’d known something was off, but he believed Quackity’s lies without a second thought. He’d always been under the impression that he was good at being able to tell when someone was lying, but apparently Quackity was far more skilled at the art than he knew. To say this bothered him was an understatement.
Unsurprisingly, this led his mind down a path of trying to pick out other times Quackity had lied to him. If Phil was right and Quackity and Niki really had conspired to kill Tommy with the radicalists, had Quackity’s concern for Tommy in the wake of the attacks been fake?
He thought back to the journey to Cedardijk. The night he told Quackity exactly what happened at L’mannes, Quackity’s reactions seemed genuine enough. The horror, the sympathy, the offered comfort—but had there been guilt flashing through his eyes as well? Or was Wilbur’s mind altering the memory to line up with what he now knew?
There was a chance that Quackity felt no guilt at all for what Wilbur went through at L’mannes. And if that was true, then the compassion he’d offered on the road to Cedardijk had been a lie as well. He’d been playing Wilbur for a fool this entire time.
Wilbur didn’t sleep well that night.
❀❁❀
“According to the servants, Wilbur has refused breakfast,” Techno told Phil over his morning paperwork. “He also refuses to leave his chambers, and has told them he’s not feeling well.”
Sighing, Phil set his quill down and looked up at Techno. “I’m not surprised. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy for him.” His gaze fell back to the papers as worry wrapped a fist around his heart. “I wish we didn’t have to lie to him, but it would’ve been too difficult to explain why we didn’t show him the letter when we first found it three years ago.”
“I think that would just make him more upset,” Techno agreed, before falling silent again.
When you knew someone for decades on end, you grew very attuned not just with how they spoke, but how they went quiet. Every moment, voiced or silent, held an emotion inside of it. And Phil was well-aware of how Techno’s silences were often louder than his words.
“What is it?” Phil asked after a beat. “You don’t think we did the right thing?”
Techno turned to look out the window at the courtyard gardens below. The sickly, yellow henbane flowers were in full bloom, yet most were hidden beneath the larger rose bush leaves in such a way that no one noticed if one or two went missing. No one had noticed the missing blossoms in the week leading up to Schlatt’s death, after all.
“I just don’t think it’s very fair,” Techno finally told him. “We let the kid go to Cedardijk, let him start a relationship and go through all that, all while holding this letter in our back pockets the entire time.”
“I never wanted to use the letter, you know that,” Phil argued. “Quackity gave me no choice when he threatened my life.”
“Of course I agree with you using it. I just wonder if we should’ve told Wilbur about it three years ago,” Techno clarified.
Phil sighed again. “I often wonder that myself. But you and I both know that Quackity almost certainly wouldn’t have agreed to the plan if Wilbur had been set to go with Tommy from the start. And even if he’d disagreed, Schlatt would’ve gone through with it anyway, because there was nothing more he hated than being told what to do. But that first month after L’mannes, Wilbur was angry. He wouldn’t have settled with just getting his revenge on Schlatt if he’d had an inkling that Quackity had been involved as well, regardless of what Quackity’s opinion on it had been.”
Techno huffed. “And what is it you think showing him the letter is going to do now? You know just as well as I do that he’s still angry about L’mannes.”
“There wasn’t a reason to neutralize Quackity before. He didn’t pose an active threat. Now he does.”
“Now Wilbur’s anger is useful to you, you mean.” The words weren’t accusatory, it was Techno simply stating a fact. Phil frowned, but before he could respond, “I also wanted to ask, why did you throw in that part about Quackity and Niki planning to kill Tommy together? Did you find something that connects him to it?”
That had been a spur of the moment addition on Phil’s end while they’d been talking to Wilbur. Although it was true that Phil had his suspicions regarding Niki’s involvement in the radicalist attack, he had yet to find any evidence to suggest that Quackity was her co-conspirator in the matter.
Phil shook his head. “No, I haven’t. But when I looked into Wil’s eyes, I knew the letter wasn’t going to be enough on its own to get him to turn against Quackity.”
Techno raised his eyebrows at this. “Phil, he threatened to have you executed. You really don’t think that Wilbur would take his side in that matter, do you?”
“No, of course not. But you heard Wil before we showed him the letter. He was convincing himself that he could talk Quackity into dropping the accusations,” Phil explained. “I need him to understand that we’ve moved past the point of talking.”
“So if he believes that Quackity is actively trying to kill Tommy while simultaneously threatening to turn you into Sam-” Techno began.
“It’ll help him get past his… feelings, for Quackity,” Phil finished. When Techno raised his eyebrows at this, Phil huffed. “I don’t like this anymore than you do. But Quackity brought this on himself.”
“I know he did. He’s well-aware that there are consequences to sticking your hand in a fire, and now he’ll have to face them,” Techno agreed before looking back out the window. “It’s just a hell of a way for his and Wil’s relationship to end.”
Phil’s gaze fell to his lap as he nodded. “It really fucking is.”
❀❁❀
Wilbur spent the day in his room.
As soon as he woke, he wished he hadn’t. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the sweet nothingness of sleep again, where he didn’t have to think about Quackity. He even considered sending a summons for Ponk. If he feigned illness, he was sure he could get Ponk to give him a sleeping draught. But word spread quickly in the palace. If he ‘took ill’ there was no doubt Quackity and Tommy would both hear about it, and then he would have to fend off visits from the both of them.
So he forced himself to lie with his misery. When a servant came knocking, asking if he would like to take breakfast in his chambers, he turned them away. He remained in his bed and tried to go back to sleep on his own, but every time he began to drift off, he would hear the crack of the carriage wheels as they veered off the mountain road, and he would jerk upright again.
Eventually, he gave up on the notion of sleep and took to pacing around the room. His fire had burnt out in the night, and he had declined a servant’s offer to re-light it. Summer was beginning to wane, but there was still enough warmth in the air that he didn’t need it. Despite this, gooseflesh rose along his arms beneath his night shirt as he wore a rut into the rug beneath his feet.
Now that the initial shock had worn off, Wilbur’s anger was showing itself. It burned in his chest, rising through his throat and cutting off his words as he truly felt the weight of Quackity’s betrayal. Quackity had lied to him countless times over the years. His sympathy had been a lie. His care had been a lie. Even though Schlatt was the one who came up with the plan, Quackity let him get away with it. If Quackity had more of a backbone, he could’ve told Phil of Schlatt’s plan before Wilbur left on that carriage with Tommy. Or he could’ve even told Wilbur himself, as opposed to the vague warning he gave him instead.
Then there was the matter of Tommy. Twice now, Quackity had tried to have him killed. There was no doubt in Wilbur’s mind that Quackity must’ve been the one to suggest the idea to Niki. He couldn’t fathom Niki going so far as to actually make an attempt on Tommy’s life, at least not without outside influence. But if Quackity had suggested the idea to her, convinced her that it would benefit both of them and was a necessary step to ensure Arestes ended up with a competent ruler—well, Wilbur knew that while Niki was kind, she was also pragmatic. She would be pained by the plan, but she would agree to it.
Had Quackity been exchanging letters with her while they were in Cedardijk? He and Wilbur had rarely left each other’s company after the night of the festival. So did Quackity wait until Wilbur was asleep to crawl out of their bed and scribble off a message to Niki about killing Tommy? Did he look at Wilbur’s sleeping face and think about how badly this would hurt him, and decide to go through with it anyway?
Wilbur wanted to say no. But now he knew that Quackity seemingly had no issue with letting him be hurt. Wilbur’s pain, whether physical or mental, meant nothing to Quackity in the wake of his goals.
Letting out a yell of frustration, Wilbur grabbed a paper weight off his desk and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. It clattered to the ground unscathed, and Wilbur scowled.
To think he’d let himself be made such a fool of. Phil should be ashamed of him. His emotions had gotten the better of him. Made him think what he had with Quackity was real. But nothing about the Quackity he knew was real.
When a servant came with a midday meal for him, Wilbur forced himself to accept it. The kitchen must’ve been informed that he was having an ‘off day’ because he’d been given a savory fish and egg tart—one of his favorites. But Wilbur didn’t taste a single bit of it. His bites were mechanical, and the buttery pastry crust and soft egg were little more than sand on his tongue.
Although his mood didn’t improve, the food in his stomach helped to clear his mind. For the first time since Phil handed him the letter, his emotions took a backseat as his sense of logic regained control.
The major question at the forefront of his mind was where he was going to go from here. Of course there was going to be whatever plan Phil came up with to handle this, but until then, what was Wilbur supposed to do?
Quackity couldn’t find out that Wilbur was aware of any of this. Not the letter, nor his role in Tommy’s latest brush with death. Right now, Wilbur had the advantage of being one of the closest people to him in the palace. Even if he didn’t trust Wilbur with most of his secrets, he still had more access to Quackity than anyone else. While he may not have recognized the source of Quackity’s anxiety these past few weeks, he had been able to see that it was there. Now that he had the full picture, he was sure he’d be able to sense if Quackity was on the verge of making his next move.
But if Wilbur was to keep that access he had to Quackity, that meant he had to actually see him. Which meant that Wilbur was going to have to pretend everything was normal between them. He was going to have to smile at Quackity, hold his hand, and kiss him all while knowing that Quackity was part of the reason he now had a limp for the rest of his life.
It would be difficult, but Wilbur could do it. Years of schooling his features to never reveal his true thoughts had prepared him for this. While he was tempted to put off seeing Quackity for as long as possible, his anger had only grown stronger over the hours. A part of him wanted to rip off the bandage. To go see Quackity as soon as possible, and goad him into lying straight to Wilbur’s face.
As the hours dragged on, the urge got more and more difficult to resist. Wilbur tried to sleep again but to no avail. He tried reading but found he couldn’t focus on the words. He tried pacing some more, only for his leg to start aching since he wasn’t using his cane.
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long for Wilbur to give into his impulse.
He dressed himself carelessly, doing himself up only enough to look presentable but nothing more. Then, he stormed out of his chambers and down the hall, the light of the dying sun bathing the entire corridor in gold. He forced himself to slow when he got close to Quackity’s chambers though, not wanting to raise the guard’s suspicions.
His teeth were bared in a painful smile as he approached the door. The guards, who had long since grown used to his visits, didn’t question what he was there for. They knocked on the door, told Quackity it was Wilbur, and then the door was swinging open.
It was all so routine, so familiar that Wilbur didn’t blink twice as he brushed past Quackity to enter the room. Quackity was smiling as he said something to Wilbur that Wilbur couldn’t hear over the sound of the blood roaring in his ears. He mumbled some half-response, which seemed to be enough to appease Quackity as he walked to the wine carafe sitting on his dresser.
Wilbur came back to his body as a wine goblet was pressed into his hand. Quackity was looking down at him, eyebrows raised as though awaiting a response.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Wilbur asked after a moment.
“I asked if you were alright. You look pale,” Quackity told him.
The deep orange light from the fireplace framed Quackity’s dark hair like a halo. Wilbur stared at Quackity’s beautiful face and wondered what it looked like when he heard that his and Tommy’s carriage had never made it back from L’mannes.
“I’m alright,” Wilbur lied, taking a sip of his wine.
Quackity frowned at this. Gesturing for Wilbur to make room, he sat down beside him on the bed and Wilbur had to fight the urge to recoil when their shoulders brushed.
“You don’t have to worry about Niki,” Quackity suddenly said. “We talked today and she reassured me she’s not going to tell anyone about us.”
Resisting the urge to scoff, Wilbur nodded. “I wasn’t concerned about that. I know she wouldn’t say anything. She’s not like that.”
She’s not like you, Wilbur’s mind whispered in response. Because the truth of the matter was that if the situation had been reversed, and Quackity had been the one to discover Niki in a compromising relationship, Wilbur got the sense that Quackity wouldn’t let it go as she did. Of course he would feel guilty about it, but he was a businessman at heart. One could only ignore the possibility of profit for so long.
Despite his attempts to keep his expression neutral, Wilbur felt his lips twist and quickly dropped his head so Quackity couldn’t see. Quackity let out a soft breath but didn’t say anything. When a warm hand came to rest on top of Wilbur’s own, he almost jerked his hand away, but stopped himself at the last second.
Instead, he forced himself to turn his hand and lace his fingers with Quackity’s. Quackity’s hand was warm and solid in his own, his thumb brushing softly over Wilbur’s knuckles.
For just a moment, Wilbur’s anger cracked. Less than twenty-four hours before, Wilbur would’ve found comfort in the hand wrapped around his own. He would’ve embraced Quackity and hidden his face in his shoulder, letting his ever-buzzing mind go quiet just for that moment. He would’ve been at peace.
Wilbur desperately wanted that peace again. But his nerves didn’t calm as he squeezed Quackity’s hand, and his thoughts only got louder when he let their legs press together on the bed. It was as if his entire being was at war with itself. His body still craved Quackity’s touch, while his mind rejected it.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Quackity asked, his voice soft.
His anger drowned out everything else inside of him, allowing him to ignore this sensation of being split in half. It was easier that way.
“I’m alright. It’s just a flare up in my leg,” Wilbur lied, stoking his anger back to life. “It’s nothing serious. It happens a lot.”
It was almost imperceptible. Wilbur wouldn’t have noticed it if they hadn’t been pressed shoulder to shoulder. But they were side by side, and Wilbur didn’t miss the way Quackity’s body tensed at that.
“I’m sorry,” Quackity said, his voice laced with that sticky guilt Wilbur had been so blind to before. “Would you like me to call for Ponk? I’m sure he could give you something for the pain.”
Wilbur shook his head. “No, I’ll be alright. Like I said, this happens a lot.”
Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the sensation of dragging his broken body across the snow, desperate to reach Tommy before the bandits did. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to take a slow breath out of his nose, while keeping his eyes on his lap.
“You know, a part of me has wondered something for a while. About the bandits and all,” Wilbur said once he was calm again. “You could call me paranoid for this, but I always thought that maybe the attack wasn’t bad luck. That maybe it was something planned.”
Beside him, Quackity stiffened.
“Of course, that begs the question of who planned it. But the only person I can think of who would do something that terrible to us is Schlatt.”
“Really?” Quackity asked, his voice tight.
“It makes sense. We both know he hated Tommy from the first day he arrived in Pandorinne. And he would’ve had the money for it too.”
Quackity gave an awkward, jerky nod. “That- yeah. I guess I can see that.”
This time, it was Wilbur who watched Quackity, while Quackity kept his head tilted so his face was just out of view.
“You do? I would’ve thought you’d say otherwise, given how close you were.”
“That’s why I can say it,” Quackity shot back. “I knew what he was like.”
Wilbur wanted to ask. He wanted to grab the front of Quackity’s shirt, dig his nails into his hand and demand to know why. Why did he go along with Schlatt’s plan? Had he really been okay with Wilbur possibly being killed just to get rid of Tommy? Did he ever consider confessing? And why was he trying to kill Tommy again so many years later?
But he couldn’t ask. There were the logical reasons, of course. But there were also illogical ones. How Wilbur’s own fears sewed his mouth shut. He wanted to have these answers. He didn’t want to know these answers. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, and while his ignorance was little more than a sheer stretch of gauze these days, it was still better than seeing the picture in full. It was still better than acknowledging the true depth of Quackity’s betrayal.
“I need to go,” Wilbur suddenly said as nausea rose in his throat.
“Wait, Wilbur-”
“Sorry, it’s not your fault,” Wilbur lied, “but I’m really out of sorts today. I think I need to go lie down.”
Quackity followed him to the door, his hand hovering over the small of Wilbur’s back but not touching him. “Look, Wilbur, I know there’s a lot of things we don’t talk about, and I know we both have good reasons for that. But-” Quackity fought for his words before shaking his head. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying. Just…” he reached out for Wilbur, resting a hand on his cheek. Wilbur hated how quickly he melted into the touch. “Get some rest, okay?”
For a moment, Wilbur couldn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to step away. Because there was a sense of finality to it. When Wilbur left the room tonight, his relationship to Quackity would never be like this again.
So he gave himself one last beat. He leaned into Quackity’s hand, his eyes burning as Quackity brushed a thumb over his cheekbone.
Then, without giving himself a chance to think about it, Wilbur moved back towards the door before Quackity could reach for him again. His cheek ached in the absence of Quackity’s warmth.
“Goodnight, Q,” Wilbur whispered.
“Goodnight, Wilbur.”
Wilbur didn’t let himself look back as he left Quackity’s chambers behind. He didn’t let himself think about where he was going next. His feet carried him in the direction he needed to go.
It turned out that he needed to see Phil.
His mind raced as he made his way towards his father’s chambers. Night had fallen while he’d been with Quackity, casting the corridors in dark shadows as his cane thumped against the floor. A decision had been made in his mind ever since he read Quackity’s letter, but this conversation solidified it.
No matter what, Quackity had to be taken out of the running for the Crown. Wilbur knew there were numerous ways Phil could accomplish that, but there were risks. If Phil found a way to get Quackity sent back to Cedardijk without the expectation of return, that would only function as a temporary solution. Quackity wanted the Crown, and his ambition was only rivaled by his tenacity.
Not to mention, there was the issue of his allies back in Cedardijk. Due to their close trade relations, Roier held more sway over Arestes’ relationship with Elsong than even Sam did. Foolish had been spending the last several years in Pandorinne by Quackity’s side, learning about the court, forming his own relationships, and undoubtedly taking note of how best to navigate through the political waters. And of course there was Bagi, Quackity’s chosen Consil. Wilbur was certain she wouldn’t let Quackity be taken out of the running so easily.
No, sending Quackity home wouldn’t work. It would only embolden him to take more risks, and given that he’d already threatened Phil’s life, Wilbur didn’t want to see how much further he was willing to go.
As Phil’s chamber doors came into view, his vision blurred. For a moment, Wilbur was confused and stopped walking, blinking quickly to try and figure out what was going on. Then, he felt dampness on his cheeks, and realized what was happening.
He was crying.
“Wil?”
His father’s face appeared in the doorway, his features blending together as more tears burned in Wilbur’s eyes. All of his jewelry had been removed for the evening, his embroidered coat replaced with his night clothes. He’d been getting ready to sleep.
Phil must’ve seen the tears in his eyes, because he opened the door wider without saying another word. Wilbur hurried inside, his chest growing tighter with each passing breath as the reality of what was about to happen set in.
“Here, sit,” Phil said, guiding Wilbur to his couch. Wilbur sat, his breaths ragged as he tried and failed to compose himself.
“I- I went to see Quackity,” Wilbur managed to say. “I didn’t tell him anything. He doesn’t know what I know.”
Phil sat down beside Wilbur and, after a moment of hesitation, reached out to rest a hand on his arm. “You needed to put a face to the betrayal.”
Wilbur forced down a sob as he nodded. “I did.” He sucked in a lungful of air, his eyes burning as he looked at the ceiling. It seemed closer than it should’ve been. As though it were pressing down on him, compressing his lungs and making him suffocate. “And I- I understand now. I know where this has to go.” He looked down again to meet his father’s eyes. “I’ve almost lost Tommy to Quackity twice now. I’m not going to lose my father too.”
Lines of sorrow appeared on Phil’s forehead as he turned away from Wilbur. “I’m so sorry, Wil. If there was any other way-”
“Don’t apologize,” Wilbur said, cutting his father off. “Quackity made his choices of his own free will.”
“Yes,” Phil murmured, staring into the fireplace. “At the very least, it’s easy to frame someone for a crime you already hold all the evidence to.”
Although Phil’s voice was barely above a whisper, the words shattered like glass against Wilbur’s ears.
Phil moved his hand up to Wilbur’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “If you don’t want him to know of your involvement in this, I’ll ensure he never finds out.”
“He’ll know,” Wilbur whispered, more to himself than to his father. “No matter what you say, he’ll know it was me.”
“And you’re alright with that?” Phil asked softly.
Staring at his own hands twisted in his lap, Wilbur sighed.
“What other choice do I have?”
His father didn’t respond.